Frostbite
by The Ruiner
Summary: Hearts turn to stone as young lives are devastated while each breath draws tributes closer to a frigid death. In an arena where terror lurks with every step, sometimes being killed by fellow children is the easiest choice. SYOT Open.


**Yes, I know what you're thinking. Another SYOT, with nothing special about it. Personally, I've spent nearly two years being involved with SYOTs, and I've read ones that are novel quality, and ones that make me want to gouge my eyes out because of how bad the writing is. While I'm not the greatest writer in the world, I do know a thing or two about characterization, as well as how to make interesting stories. So go ahead, give this chapter a read. If you're interested in submitting, the form is on my profile. Other than that, I hope you enjoy and desire to submit a tribute**

* * *

People fail to understand that there will always be monsters. No matter the inherent goodness of the overall man, the worst among us will continue to strive for their own wicked desires. In simplest terms, the strong survive-those who are cruel enough to realize their passions no matter what the cost-while the weak decay, left to stumble and fall as slaves to their own morality.

Life is an ever-flowing web, the present nothing more than a random convergence of events with no greater meaning. Every seemingly insignificant decision has lasting repercussions which can impact the world in ways seemingly unimaginable. These so-called choices, though, represent more than a simple means to an end.

In one present, the future is bright as Katniss Everdeen and the Rebellion have overthrown their oppressors. In many cases, this optimism bares fruit, and in these scenarios peace often reigns for centuries.

But what happens, then, to those worlds where the Mockingjay died early? In some, events proceed in much the same way. People do as humankind has always done, briefly mourning the tragedy and soon-after rallying behind a new cause. There still exists however, the unfortunate cases. The Rebellion is defeated. Katniss Everdeen, Finnick Odair, and the rest of the peoples' leaders are all dead at the hands of the Capitol. The oppressive government regains control. Tyrannical law ensues, and eventually the dust settles and the country returns to the all-too-familiar state.

Our story exists in one of these realities, two centuries after Katniss Everdeen has been shot dead by Capitol soldiers. Here, there is no hope, and the monsters of this world rule the weak in the bowels of the districts. This is not a tale of optimistic futures. There are no people fighting for what they believe to be some sort of rightful justice. Only one fact remains unchanged: twenty-four children will fight, and twenty-three will be killed.

How this is interpreted by the individual is irrelevant. The only truth is that for our tributes there is no escape. Twenty-three will die and one will emerge broken beyond repair. And as they are killed, many of them will imagine that hopeful world that almost could have been.

* * *

In some irrelevant place and time, two men stood alone in an isolated field, the events of the Second Rebellion so far removed that even their great-grandparents had only heard about it through stories of their ancestors. Harsh gasps of breath clouded into vapor above them as the taller of the pair ducked his head to avoid the gales of wind and gusts of snow freezing him to the core.

"Everything is ready then, I suppose?" The president asked, his head still lowered to avoid the nipping at his face.

Jacinto Bishop, the other man, only laughed as he gestured at the snow-capped ranges and pillars of ice. The question itself was wholly unimportant, because the two of them already knew the answer. In the dozen years he had held the position, Jacinto had established himself as the premiere head-gamemaker of his generation.

Among even the most creatively sadistic of all the Capitolites, he was a god.

The president, though, was a much less impressive man whose only real accomplishment was being the longtime friend of Jacinto Bishop. His campaign, while moderately successful, did little to popularize him for the upcoming election-only after Jacinto voiced support for the man did his poll rankings begin to skyrocket. And, although technically speaking Lucius Marks held the higher position, both men knew where the balance of power truly laid.

Lucius looked up at his friend, who seemed entirely unbothered by the cold. Whilst he was chilled to the bone while bundled in the finest synthetics made by the Capitol, Jacinto stood tall wearing nothing more than his usual trench-coat.

"I suppose I should be happy then," Lucius smiled before bowing his head again, "That you seem to have this entirely in your control. I haven't any need to intervene in your affairs again."

Lucius Marks had always considered himself to be a respectable man, graduating at the top of his class from the most prestigious law institute in Panem. He had no interest in the gaudy fashions of his country's denizens. Rather, he maintained a clean-shaven appearance and prided himself upon being the unassuming safety valve his Capitolites could rely on.

Jacinto finally looked directly at the president, and grinned widely so as to reveal the genetically-modified fangs he was so proud of. Unlike the president, he was ruthless, the youngest ever to reach the position of being head-peacekeeper, and after being courtmartialed for his overwhelming brutality he similarly ascended up the ranks of the gamemakers.

Only Lucius Marks had the right to speak down to him, for between them existed a sense of mutual respect that presided regardless of whatever words were said. Together, they both possessed an uncommon lust for power, and as their countless familiars would attest, there was a fire in the mens' eyes as they hunted down whatever stood in their way.

Jacinto spoke slowly as he responded to the president, "It will be perfect, as usual. I can personally guarantee that you won't be disappointed."

No further words were needed, as both men knew any additional discourse would be pointless. Jacinto's Games had been punctuated with his tributes suffering some of the worst fates imaginable: eviscerated by the sharp scythes of insectoid mutts, black bile oozing from every opening imaginable, and limbs being slowly torn off one by one. However gruesome they may have been, they were effective. the Districts feared competing in a Hunger Games where the best possible outcome would be being killed by a fellow tribute. However painful the puncture of a sword could be, the terror of some unimaginable fate was always worse.

And more importantly, Jacinto's Games were _never_ boring.

The president nodded quickly as if to assert some meaningful exchange had taken place, and after hearing no further response from Jacinto, hurried into the open hovercraft so as to escape the vicious cold gnawing at his face.

Jacinto Bishop only stood outside for a little while longer. He drew a sharp breath, which plumed above his head as he imagined the fates of the tributes who would play his Games.

Although no one could have known at the time, the repercussions of this Hunger Games would reach beyond simple entertainment for the Capitolites. It would torture the districts in a way no other year had done before; nightmares would plague even the coldest of men as they witnessed the atrocities. And years later, even in the Capitol, there would still be people who wanted to forget. Yet, no matter how hard they tried, they would always remember.

But as Jacinto stood alone in the plunging cold of his masterpiece, he had only one thought.

_Let the games begin, children._


End file.
